“Talk to me,” Dean says. “How did the conversation with Lilith go? Did she tell you anything else?”
“Not really,” I say. “But she was very focused on making sure I know she's a widow.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“She said it probably five times,” I explain. “Every opportunity she could to wedge it into the conversation, she would mention that she was a widow on her own, or that she had been widowed. She really wanted to emphasize not just that she was a single woman living out here, but that her husband is dead.”
“Why would she want to do that?” he asks.
“I don't know,” I say.
My voice is getting softer. The fabric Dean wrapped around my arm is soaked through with blood. He adds another on top of it, tying it tighter to try to stop the bleeding. Xavier crouches down in front of me and takes both of my hands.
“You're on a roller coaster,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“You're on a roller coaster,” he repeats. “It's that moment when you first get in and they put the restraints down. You know they're tight enough, but you push them anyway just to make sure. Even though you're excited and you can't wait to ride, there's that split-second of fear. You're worried and wonder if you can get out before they start the ride.”
“But you never can,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. Because it starts too fast. It jumps ahead and turns the corner to start to head down the first stretch. You hit the bottom of the hill and start creeping up. The chain clicks. It pulls you. Building up your excitement. You know the more clicks you hear, the higher the hill. The bigger the drop. You get to the top and the train sits there for a second. Just a second. Lasts forever, but it’s just a second. Then right when you think nothing is going to happen, you drop.”
My hands tighten around Xavier's as I focus on the sound of his voice and drawing in each breath.
"The pressure of being drawn up the hill releases. As if there's no control anymore. You're just on the track, sailing around the corners and over the hills. There's wind in your face, and you're scared, but you know you're safe. The restraints have you. They won't let you go. You're having fun, and you scream. Everybody around you is screaming. Can you hear them?"
The sound sinks into my ears, and I feel a little rush of the thrill that comes from giving in to a ride like that. The screams keep getting louder, and after a few seconds, I realize they aren't screams. It's the sound of sirens.
I didn't realize my eyes were closed until I open them. Lights from the emergency vehicles flash over my face, and I look at Xavier. He smiles.
"You made it," he says, then leans toward me. "See? It works for you, too."
Chapter Eighteen
“Well, damn, my imagination is a whole lot better than I thought it was,” I note.
“Maybe if she claps her hands together really hard, she can make all the scarecrows come to life, too,” Dean says sarcastically, pacing back and forth across the hospital room.
“All we're trying to say is there isn't any evidence of what you described,” the officer in front of me says.
“No evidence?” I ask. “Is the eight-inch gash down my arm I just had to have stitched up like a quilt, not enough evidence for you?”
“I'm sorry, Miss Griffin, but we spoke to the manager,” the officer, somebody I vaguely recognized as having seen at the police station, says.
“It's Agent Griffin,” I correct him. “And we spoke with the manager, too. He already gave us the line that he doesn't have a reaper scare actor in the maze. Which is why we tried to explain to him this was not one of his scare actors. This was somebody who went into that maze with the intention of coming after Xavier and me. Probably Dean, too.”
“But you're the only one who got hurt,” the officer says.
“Lucky me,” I say, my eyes narrowing to glare at him.
“I understand you're upset. But the point of those mazes is to frighten people and make them feel disoriented. It's entirely possible you went in, got confused, and got scared by the actors. You were running and maybe saw one of the props, and you thought it was a person who came after you.”
“And this?” I ask, gesturing toward the bandage wrapped around the long stretch of stitches down my arm. “I just scared this into being, too?”
“No,” the officer says. “But there is some barbed wire at the back of the maze. It was supposed to just be a display, but it somehow got moved and ended up partially overhanging the walkway. You probably didn't even notice that you ran into it because you were so afraid.”
“You're telling me you think I went into a corn maze and was so delirious and out of my mind with terror that I conjured up the image of a man with a scythe, ran into barbed wire, and believed it was him attacking me? That's your working theory right now?”
“It's the only thing that makes sense,” he shrugs.
“That makes sense?” Dean sputters.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “If there was more that we could do for you, we would. But we had men go through that entire maze. There was nobody dressed the way you described. We found blood, but no weapons.”
“On the barbed wire?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Did you find blood on the barbed wire? This cut is bad enough for me to have bled all over the maze itself, so if you're so sure that it was the barbed wire that cut me, logic would have it there would be blood on the wire. Right?”
The officer doesn't answer, and I shake my head, but before any of us can say anything else, the doctor comes in the room.
“How are the
